


Drift Off

by PaintedYertle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Act 5, Exhaustion, F/M, Meteor, scalemate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedYertle/pseuds/PaintedYertle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all they have been through, one of them had to crash. Each of them had been worn down in their own way, it was only a matter of time before she stumbled upon their stubborn leader curled up on the floor of a dark room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift Off

**Author's Note:**

> Mild swearing because Karkat.

          Each of them had been worn down in their own way, it was only a matter of time before she stumbled upon their stubborn leader curled up on the floor of a dark room. Terezi found him in one of the many unexplored rooms deep in the corridors of the facility. It took a moment for her senses to register just who it was. Out of all of them this short-fused crab was the one she least associated with soft breathing. By now he’d be ranting to her about “knocking before entering” or “minding her own damn business” or most likely “if you’ve got nothing better to do besides roaming around to wherever the fuck then why don’t you trick another wriggling pink human into offing themselves?!”. He must be asleep.

          Hypocrite. Gives an order for half the ship to stay up and immediately breaks his rule in less than one day. Or whatever constitutes for a day around here. Before now they've utilized the planets Prospit and Derse as their gold and purple north stars to somewhat navigate the time with, but now that both of them blew up, as planets lately tend to do, the days have stretched out and blended together. The universe somehow found another way to lurch them into even more confusion. Fucking miracles.

          Of course she was used to him like this. All curled up and vulnerable for an unexpected attack. He was in the same exact position on Prospit. It’s adorable. Her feet take her in the room, sniffing the area, hoping so bad her cane won’t bump into him or he'll hear her echoing steps. That would ruin the fun.

          From what she can tell he was out cold. No thrashing around as of yet. If he is not having a nightmare now he will be soon. All of them have been getting pestered relentlessly by them and he would be an unlikely exception. None of the others are willing acknowledge it, but the stress is evident within their small unconscious movements. The tense flinches, the worn tone of their voices, acts only a true expert in senses and the practice of underlying motivations such as herself can detect. Even Vriska with all her knack for deception and open bragging about some lucky streak can’t hide it. Terezi’s in particular have involved a barrage of shapeless movements behind her eyelids. They resemble her chalk drawings, only move on their own like static until they form figures.

          It was never a pretty picture. At best it is a face. A black shape with empty eyes and a mouth defined by jutting sharp teeth. It rounds into dark shades likely belonging to a certain coolkid surrounded by splashes of red that doesn’t taste a thing like cherry. _(Dead Daves are the enemy!)_ The face begins to glow orange, not on fire but made of it, and the usually still face forms a scowl meant directly for her. In the remaining darkness something like a blue star in a sky speeds off into nothing. _(Pchoooooooo)_ All sorts of delicious colors spilling over everything, drying and hardening into something dull. At absolute worst it is an event. A bad path hastily strung together by impulse and desperation. A point in time either a definite mark in her timeline or a slight possibility. Who even knows anymore? No matter the circumstance it always leads to death. Predicting the future was way easier when it was a clear vision on a cloud. Stupid lousy time travel shenanigans. No-good rotten mind superpowers.

          With their recuperacoons now a lost luxury of the past the only place around here to lie down is the hard floor and Gamzee’s makeshift therapeutic horn pile. Oh how she misses the reassurance of her dragon lusus in sleep. Her wise teachings. The swiftness in her flight. She yearns for flight in general. To rise up, up, up, and no need for gravity. To fall back without the restraint. The drop in her stomach as she allowed her body to fall, and the jolt in her chest when she opened her wings and ascended once again.

  
          But Terezi knows she can’t sleep now. All she feels is boredom and there’s nothing left to do but wait around. Wait for him to wake up. Wait for their next move. For another chat to pop up. For the wounds to heal. For her lusus to hatch. For the frustration and mourning period to just fade away already. To see how many of them give up and die. Bide time until then.

          She’s often wandered alone on these aimless expeditions, refusing to lose hope. Terezi usually chooses to wrap herself in her comfy old dragon FLARP costume, but not today. For now she has stored it away in one of the many chests left around the halls. Sometimes she would head up to the “roof” outside. It’s nothing like back home, and that’s one of the best things about it. No pesky carnivorous creatures to avoid or sun to burn your eyes out. There isn’t any stargazing or inexplicable ability to breathe in space there with all those surrounding trees. Only isolation out here. This was a good thing for a time, but even that has managed to depress her now, since Prospit and Derse are gone. The honey and plum wafts she caught of the bright sanctuaries shining over their asteroid was suddenly replaced by a stain of blackness. And she’s usually fine with the taste of black. It’s akin to dark licorice. That’s not what they taste and smell like to her in the smelloscope. A sprinkle of stars here and there, but it’s mostly bitter ink. Bluh.

          Variety quickly waned the longer she was stuck here. Various blends and tastes of metals, computer screens, chalk, rubber, and blood. Being surrounded by the same eleven trolls in one place every passing cycle around the veil seemed to rub their aromas into familiarity. That number has since narrowed down, and that may be a clue as to why Karkat was here.

          Suddenly there is a shift in the ground below Terezi. At times she could feel it below her feet, the turn of the meteor drifting along an aimless direction in space. For a moment the floor turns over sideways and she feels off balance. She’s acutely aware she won’t fall and this will pass momentarily. She’s adapted to it by now. One of many things she keeps in mind. In particular that the concept of safety for them was a temporary one. It's not bothersome or even very noticeable. All it takes is to hold still until it passes. Of course it's right now that she hears movement from the corner. In a moment she whips up a witty statement ("Sleeping on the job, Karkles? Not a very remarkable leadership skill. HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!"). There's the sound of overturning rustling of his clothes. She's certain he's about to emerge and say something, but his joints settle again. Karkat is shifting over. The moving stops and the body rests again. Utter exhaustion likely claimed him. The ground slows down as well. Aside from the constant sounds of whatever runs this place surrounding her, his breathing takes over the room.

          Terezi doesn’t know why he puts himself through this. Oh wait, of course she does: palpable stupidity. Or mere determination. The last she recalls him resting was when he fainted at Tavros’s blood like a prissy, but even that lasted an hour. In their session on Alternia he was constantly active, keeping tabs on what he deemed important, conscious of team members movements and thought out every next decision. Every mistake sunk into him, became a part of him in the same fashion of the ring they sought after. It hadn’t occurred to her he was straining himself so much until he casually mentioned it to her.

          So what shall we do with you, Karkles? Perfect chalk outlines around the fresh body? Use those pinchable cheeks of yours as a sketch pad? Nepeta has been starting to take up space on the walls with her art, and the taste of spackle grey in your face just happens to closely resemble the concrete wall. Nah, that’s how she passed the time on Prospit, drawing up and illusory scenario of his first awakening, and wait with a sort of jittery patience for him to open his eyes and notice her chalk drawing in ways she no longer can. A full scope of her picture rather than a brush of the fingers or the tip of the tongue. But who is she kidding. 

 _He wouldn’t have even liked it there._ Terezi often tells herself, _He’d_ _be surrounded by delicious golden honey towers and awesomeness and he’d just say the outfits looked stupid_

          Instead Terezi brought over one of her pals along into the room with her. Cradled in her arms was one of her most trusted associates, a red scalemate by the name of Officer Rougetail. He was one of the lesser reprehensible fellows as far as she could detect, the least prone to shocking betrayal, unlike some certain other plushies or trolls that come to mind. It would be a brief loss to not have the cherry-scented colleague at her side but these are hard times and these are the types of sacrifices she makes. For now she can trust him to look after her tuckered out companion. At the very least she can revel in the thought of him waking to the sight of those unblinking periwinkle buttons staring back at him. Perhaps entangled in his angered heart he’ll appreciate the company. Or not.

          She gently settled the plush on top of one of his limp arms and as close to his chest without causing a loud squeak to disturb him.

          Her smile sharpened at the edges. Oh, that must look precious. If only she had a camera in the scratch-and-sniff captchalogue of hers, preferably one that would allow her a physical copy to use as treasure/blackmail material. The thought makes it difficult to hold back laughter. Alas.

          She places her cane before her and walks out, savoring the quiet until it all rattles out of control once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated. :-)


End file.
